


If You Must Know, I Have A Date

by Elizabeth Watson-Holmes (edye327)



Series: Feel This Magic [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Date, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 16:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1824307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edye327/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Watson-Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a date (with John).</p><p>Really just a whole lot of fluff.</p><p>T for language.</p><p>+</p><p>"Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration. Coming to terms with his feelings for John was one thing; going on a date with John, his John, was entirely something else. And he, the man who practically threw himself at death’s door on a daily basis, was terrified."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Must Know, I Have A Date

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of hitting my next hundred on my Sherlock blog, lostinsherlock.tumblr.com.
> 
> Insp. by this post: http://theunreliableone.tumblr.com/post/89443627482/no-but-imagine-john-getting-ready-for-his-and
> 
> Unedited, written in roughly an hour.

 

_Wednesday, 15:00_

“Can’t,” said Sherlock bluntly. Lestrade looked blankly at him.

“Can’t what?”

With a flamboyant sigh and flourish of his hand, Sherlock said quite impatiently, “You’re going to ask me to help you with the Brown case. Crime of passion, obvious.”

“Yes, but -”

“You want data, and I am naturally the only one here who has the capability to provide such data.”

“We-ell...”

“Oh, please.” Sherlock frowned at Lestrade, a sort of _don’t try and tell me I’m wrong because we both know I’m not_ frown, as he pulled on his gloves. “I can’t come Friday.”

“How do you know it’s going to be -”

“You’re going to spend tonight trying to wrap your head around the corpse we found in the field - needless to say, you'll gather no information - then a few hours on the phone with your mother, who will undoubtedly be complaining about your father; tomorrow, you’ll spend eleven hours struggling with other cases and clients, followed by another sleepless night consumed by your tragic failure to observe, and then sometime the next morning, you’ll ring me asking if I’ll come to the crime scene to gather the evidence of which Anderson so rudely attempted to deprive me.”

Lestrade appeared fractionally surprised (more exasperated than anything, really), then said impatiently, “So what if that happens?”

“I told you,” scoffed Sherlock, “I can’t.”

“You can’t... come to the crime scene?”

“On Friday. I’m busy.”

“Molly got you another beheading, then.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Mmn... no.”

Lestrade sighed. “Fine. I won’t call you on Friday.”

“Good.” Sherlock was on the landing when he quite suddenly spun round, marched back into the room, and declared, “If you must know, I have a date,” and, with a quick nod of self-satisfaction and a proud little grin, went outside to hail a cab.

+

_19:30_

“A _date,_ ” said Lestrade, shaking his head. “A bloody _date._ ”

Sally raised an eyebrow. “And his exact words were...?”

“‘If you must know, I have a date,’” recounted Lestrade, and rubbed a hand over his face. “This shouldn’t be so shocking, it’s just that, well, I don’t know who - other than Molly, but she’s got Tom, hasn’t she? Nice bloke, and she’s a catch, you know - would want to...”

“Date a freak?” Sally supplied helpfully.

Lestrade grimaced. “I feel sorry for the both of them. She’ll be traumatized by the end of the night, Sherlock will...” He blanched at the thought of what the poor woman could and probably would be subjected to, going on a date with the world’s only consulting detective, and amended, “Well, I feel sorry for _her,_ at least.”

“Did he give any hint as to who the mystery woman is?”

The DI shook his head and pushed his plate to the side, wrapping his hands round the beer that Sally had so generously offered when he walked into the room looking like he’d seen a ghost.

“And you’re absolutely _certain_ that this is a living, breathing human?”

“No. No! Oh, god. Is it?”

“He’s a freak, Greg. You know that. This date isn't legitimate, I'll tell you that much. Don't be as daft as he thinks you are."

“You know who would know?” Lestrade cut in. “John.” He nodded at her phone. “Call him.”

Rolling her eyes - Sherlock's romantic endeavors were honestly at the very bottom of an extensive list of things she did not give a shit about - Sally dialed John’s number.

_“Hello?”_

“Hi, John, it’s Donovan and, um, Lestrade.”

_“...do you need something? Is Sherlock okay?”_

“Well, actually” - Sally glanced at Lestrade, who was gesturing at the mobile - “here, Greg will talk to you.”

_“Right. Okay.”_

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered as she handed the phone to Lestrade, who shushed her impatiently. She had half a mind to take away his beer, too; a drunk Lestrade was a right pain in the arse, and she had her own plans which may or may not involve Anderson. 

Lestrade slammed a hand down on the table, flinching a bit belatedly. He was on his way to complete inebriation, then. "John!”

_“What’s going on?”_

“Sherlock claims...” Lestrade suddenly realized how extremely stupid this would sound, but continued anyway, “that he has a date. Friday night. And Sally and I” - “No, Greg, just you,” Sally said annoyedly - “we were wondering if that’s... true. And if so, who the woman is. Because as someone who prioritizes the well being and relative safety of the citizens of Great Britain, I think we ought to, er, keep an eye out for this ‘date’ just in case she, you know. Falls victim and is nearly killed by a Chinese circus or something.”

 _“Er."_ John cleared his throat. " _Yes.”_

Lestrade gaped. “He has a date?”

John’s voice sounded off as he confirmed hesitantly, _“He does.”_

“No, are you...? _Really?_ Who is it?”

_“Um... someone he works with.”_

“A Scotland Yard employee?”

_“No.”_

“Where’d he meet her?”

_“Listen, Greg, I’ve got to go, I’m cleaning up the eyeball jar and - I have to go.”_

“Wait -”

_Click._

“Satisfied?” Sally asked smugly. “Great detective work there. Really, I applaud you.”

“Shut up,” Lestrade snapped, and downed the rest of his drink.

+

_Thursday, 16:00_

“John!”

He turned around. Sarah was jogging towards him. “Hi,” he said cautiously. They weren’t on bad terms anymore, but he still tried to keep his distance. She’d recently become a bit too keen on spending more time with him, though, and unfortunately their window of opportunity had passed - really had already passed before their first date, before any of his first dates since he met Sherlock.

“John, hey,” she said breathlessly, smoothing a strand of hair off her face. “Glad I caught you. Um, some of my friends and I are planning to go out tomorrow night and we were wondering if... you’re welcome to join us. If you want.” She flashed him a smile.

“I’d love to” (he wouldn’t) “but I actually have a date” (he did) “and I” (have spent forever waiting for something and someone like this to happen) “don’t really feel right, you know, cancelling.”

Sarah pursed her lips in disappointment for a second, and then said a bit resignedly, “You might cancel, though.”

“No, actually, I’m really sorry but I don’t think we -”

“No, John. You might cancel for Sherlock.”

The irony of this statement made it difficult for John not to let a euphoric giggle escape him. “Hm?”

There was a hint of resentment (understandably so) in Sarah's eyes as she said bitterly, “If you get a text from him, you’ll run off to wherever he is and leave the poor girl in the dust. And if you _say_ that you’re going to go on a date to the cinema or dinner or wherever, Sherlock’s bound to show up at some point, and far be it from you to object.”

“That’s - that’s not going to be the case this time.”

“Okay,” said Sarah skeptically, and stood there for a moment, long enough to make John start to squirm uncomfortably. Then she said, “Well, I’ll see you around then” at the same time as he said stupidly, because he felt bad, “We can catch up another time.” From the set of her jaw, however, he knew she was well aware that there would be no catching up in the near or distant future. Or ever. Because -

“Sherlock,” said John, answering the phone.

_“There’s a case. Open and shut, but Lestrade wants me to come anyway.”_

John checked his watch, then glanced up at Sarah, who was giving him a very pointed, was-I-right-or-was-I-right look before finally walking away. “Address?”

+

_Friday, 16:30_

“Right,” said John, taking a deep breath and staring at his reflection. Did his nose normally look this big? And his hair - what in god’s _name_ was his hair doing today? “This is just a date. You’ve gone on a thousand dates before.” _Not with Sherlock._ “Well, no, not with people like Sherlock, but Sherlock’s different, and for fuck’s sake I’m talking to myself in a mirror.”

John took a moment to collect himself, then turned and surveyed his room critically. Various articles of clothing were sprawled across the floor, and the most pathetic thing about the whole situation was that he could identify exactly when and where and what happened the day that he wore each and every one. All having to do with Sherlock, of course, because the man was so damn all-consuming.

There was the outfit John had worn at the pool, for example. The one from his and Sarah's unfortunate excursion to the circus. The one he'd worn the first time he and Sherlock met had not been touched since, because a small and sentimental and horrifyingly girly part of his brain held out hoping that there would be some sort of anniversary on which he could wear it, and it would qualify as a romantic gesture, and...

John sighed and started going through his sock drawer.

+

_17:45_

John was back in his bedroom, this time freshly showered and dressed in the same oatmeal jumper as he’d worn to Angelo’s on their... well, _had_ it been a date? He made a mental note to ask Sherlock about that later.

Everything was as good as it was going to get, although his bloody hair still wouldn’t lie flat, or do what it was supposed to, no matter how much he ruffled and patted and combed through it. He kicked a metatarsal bone out of the way - how that had ended up in _his_ room eluded him completely - and returned to the mirror.

So this was what it would be like to date Sherlock Holmes.

+

_18:00_

“Yes, Mummy,” Sherlock said patiently, fidgeting with his suit button, then, “ _yes,_ I _know,_ ” before finally a firm, “ _goodbye_.”

“So you’ll tell me how it goes!” she added hastily. He rolled his eyes and ended the call, then threw himself back onto his bed dramatically, heart pounding. At which point he leapt up in horror and checked his outfit because he really needed to be more careful about these things now, for god’s sake, and if his purple shirt was wrinkled then _everything_ would go to rot and -

His shirt was fine.

Carefully sitting up, Sherlock drummed his fingers anxiously on his knees and rocked back and forth slightly before jumping to his feet and beginning to pace. His phone buzzed.

 _Good luck, mate._ Lestrade. Dull.

Another buzz. _Please don’t scare her off._ Sherlock snorted at that, and was very tempted, as he had been all week, to shout out to the world that John Watson wanted to go on a date with him and that John Watson, _John Watson,_ actually liked him, and _JOHN WATSON_ was his and -

Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration. Coming to terms with his feelings for John was one thing; going on a date with John, _his_ John, was entirely something else. And he, the man who practically threw himself at death’s door on a daily basis, was terrified.

Whistling casually ( _terrified_ ), Sherlock tried to assume a properly cool and collected mien. He grabbed his suit jacket, checked the time, and stopped to rehearse how to breathe because whenever John looked at him he seemed to forget, which was quite unfortunate, but luckily they were usually in a dusty warehouse or other questionable location and he could blame it on that. Breathing was important, he reminded himself. 

Boring, though.

Thrusting one hand into his pocket (why were hands so large and awkward? What if John found it unattractive? _Did_ John find him attractive? Sherlock was not oblivious to the fact that he hardly conformed to normal beauty standards) and the other clutching the collar of his jacket for dear life, Sherlock walked past John’s room, did a double take, and froze.

John, _his John_ (he couldn’t say or hear or think of it enough) was standing in front of the mirror, fussing over his hair. Clothes were strewn haphazardly about, as if a cyclone had carried an entire department store (how many jumpers were strictly necessary for one to own, anyway? Surely not _that_ many) across town and deposited it into John’s room, and John was currently standing on top of the shirt he’d worn when Sherlock touched him for the first time (casual, on the small of his back, sparks flying to the tips of Sherlock’s gloved fingers).

“Pull it together,” John was muttering, and ran a hand through his hair, brow furrowed.

Sherlock stood in the doorway for a solid minute, mesmerized.

And then, because he’d forgotten to breathe again, started coughing loudly and John spun around and looked positively adorable as he tried to cover up the fact that he’d been caught worrying over his hair.

When Sherlock could breathe again, and John looked slightly less mortified, Sherlock didn’t fight the wide grin creeping onto his face as he said, “Shall we, then? You look perfectly fine, incidentally. No need for all that tousling.”

“Just fine?” John teased, falling easily into step beside his detective. “I suppose it’s better than my mouth looking too small, or using too much product.”

“No, John,” said Sherlock quite seriously, and stopped so abruptly that the doctor toppled into him. Sherlock placed two hands firmly on John’s shoulders, marveling that he could now do so without the torture of not knowing if John was feeling butterflies at the contact too or if this was all stupidly platonic, and said in the deepest, most sincere voice he could muster, “You look... perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

And John beamed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and please comment/leave kudos if you enjoyed it!
> 
>  
> 
> **There is more to come in this series; I opted to create different works rather than consolidating into chapters, so please do go check out the following sequel(s)!!**


End file.
